The Saintly Buccaneer

by Gilbert, Morris

  Baxter nodded slightly. “Not far wrong. Can’t expect to make a well-trained fighting crew out of that material.” Baxter could afford to be critical, for his marines were all volunteers, but the remark displeased Rommey.

  “Captain Baxter, the Royal Navy has utilized the press for more years than you have lived—and we shall continue in the tradition!” He shot a command at the surgeon, “Dr. Mann, it is your responsibility to get these men fit for duty!”

  “But, sir—!”

  Ignoring him, Rommey directed his remarks to his officers, smoldering impatience in his snapping eyes. “You are officers in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and you will take these men—no matter what methods you must use—and make fighting men out of them. I will accept no excuses from them—or from you!”

  The lieutenants knew enough not to argue, but Dr. Mann had taken on too much port, and was rash enough to say, “But, my Captain, I cannot work miracles! There is one of the pressed men who was hauled aboard unconscious—is still not awake. His face is scarred from a drunken brawl, I’d guess, and he’s got a concussion. What can I do with him?”

  Rommey paused, letting a silence build up. Finally he stood to his feet, his bulk blotting out the light from the stern windows, and addressed the men in a cold, hard voice. “I will make myself plain this one time. We have on this ship a certain number of shot for our guns. We have so many pounds of powder. We have water and food in casks. And we have a certain number of seamen. All of these are expendable.” His eyes were fixed on Langley, and he added, “Use up the powder, the shot, the food, the water—and use up the men, Lieutenant Langley. Do you understand?”

  Langley swallowed, his face losing its color, then nodded slightly and answered in a low voice, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  The deadly seriousness of Rommey fell heavily on the guests, and the meal was finished with little talk. Excusing themselves as soon as it was polite, the two lieutenants left, both drawing sighs of relief as they came up on deck.

  Burns took a deep breath of cold air. “Weel, Clarence, I feel like a schoolboy who’s had his bottom whacked by a stern schoolmaster.”

  “Too right, Angus!” Langley swore and slapped the rail, shaking his head apprehensively. “It’s not going to be a tea party.”

  “Captain Rommey’s a hard man, but he’s fair enough—which is more than ye can say aboot others I could name.”

  “We’ll lose some of the men if we drive them too hard.”

  “It’s God’s will.” Angus put his hand on the taller man’s arm, something he’d never done before, and smiled. “We’re all in God’s hands, Langley—the crew, me, you. Even Captain William Rommey is just as much under God’s rod as that poor lad below who may never wake up. Think o’ it like that.”

  Langley felt a lift of his spirit. “I’m glad you’re aboard, Angus. Can’t say I agree with your gloomy theology—but you’re a comfort.” Then the two went below and dreamed their private dreams as the ship was driven by a sharp wind toward a warmer world.

  ****

  The clear morning brought a promise of the warmth that lay to the south, and the wind held firm. Captain Rommey stood motionless on the forecastle watching his officers and men work the ship.

  Each mast had its own division of seamen, from the swiftfooted topmen to the older, less agile hands that worked the braces and halyards from the deck. As the calls shrilled and the men poured up on deck through every hatch and companion, it seemed incredible that Neptune’s hull could contain so many. The deck swarmed with figures of seamen and marines formed into compact groups, each being checked by leather-lunged petty officers against their various lists and watch-bills.

  Like the mass of seamen and marines, the officers, too, were at their stations. Langley stood beside the captain on the forecastle, the foremast his responsibility. Burns commanded the upper gun deck and the ship’s mainmast, which was her real strength, with all the spars, cordage, canvas and miles of rigging that gave life to the hull beneath. Lattrimer, the third lieutenant, kept close watch on the crew managing the mizzenmast.

  “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!” Langley cried with all his might through a trumpet. “Loose the heads’ls!”

  Released to the wind, the canvas erupted and flapped in wild confusion; while spread along the swaying yards like monkeys, the topmen fought for the right moment to bring it under control.

  Burns called, “Man your braces. Bosun, take that man’s name!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Take that man’s name. It was a cry often repeated, for the old hands were few and the new men were many. The bosun ran around the deck like a madman constantly, using his starter, a thick rope with a knot on one end. It fell on the backs of the pressed men most often—for they were totally confused by the mass of ropes and the billowing sails above.

  Burns felt a pity for them that the captain did not, for the lieutenant’s sensitive spirit could empathize with the utter bewilderment they had been thrown into.

  “Will they ever learn, Lieutenant?”

  Burns turned to find Blanche Rommey standing behind him. She was dressed in a fine dress of blue satin that brought out the color of her eyes and clearly outlined her figure as the whipping wind pressed the thin cloth against her body. She was watching with interest as the bosun drew a cry from a thin lad on whom he was slashing viciously with his starter. There was, Burns saw, no real compassion in the girl’s face. She was no doubt accustomed to the hard life of seamen, but it was the first actual sight she’d had of it.

  “Aye, in time, most o’ them will, Miss Rommey.”

  She came to stand beside him, and at her request, he explained the basic structure of the sails and spars. She was listening intently when a movement to her left caused her to turn. “What’s the matter with that man?” she asked.

  Burns followed her gaze and saw Enoch Whitefield and another seaman placing the limp form of a man on an unoccupied section of the deck. “That’s one of the pressed men—the one Dr. Mann spoke of last night.” He checked the progress of the men, then added, “I believe I’ll see how he is, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She ignored his implied order to remain at the rail and followed him as he went to where Whitefield was bracing the man against the rail in a sitting position.

  “Has he come around yet, Whitefield?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What a frightful scar!” The captain’s daughter had moved to stand over the unconscious man, and was staring down at him with interest. “Except for that, he’d be very nice looking.”

  Burns glanced at the man and saw that she spoke the truth. The man was naked from the waist up, wearing only a pair of patched canvas breeches. He was not over five ten, but the muscles of his arms and chest were hard and well defined. His dark hair, dirty and uncombed, would lie neatly, Burns could tell, if it were clean. Clean-cut features were marred by a livid, half-healed scar that ran from his lower jaw to disappear into his hair. The wound had been stitched and was puckered, drawing the left side of his mouth up slightly and pulling his left eye into a squint.

  “He ain’t no weaklin’, sir,” Whitefield voiced thoughtfully, looking at the dark face. “Look at them forearms! I ain’t never seen such. He’s got smallish hands, but mighty strong, I’d venture!”

  “Will he die?” the girl asked, staring down at the man.

  “Mebby so, miss.” Whitefield was a simple man, and added only, “It’s in the great God’s hands now.”

  “Blanche—” She turned to see her father who had approached and was staring at her, displeasure in his eyes. “It would be best if you did not come in contact with the deckhands.”

  A stubborn light leaped into the girl’s eyes, and she retorted instantly, “Father, you have put me on this ship against my will. Now you are telling me that I must not speak with those in the world you’ve consigned me to.”

  “These men are not your sort. They’re dangerous.”

  She laughed and glanced down at the unco
nscious man. “I very much doubt if he’s any great danger to me.”

  His daughter was, Captain Rommey saw clearly, ready to make a scene right there on the deck. He’d had several with her in the process of separating her from a dissolute French nobleman, and desired no more—especially not in front of his crew. Rommey was not a man to deceive himself, and he realized that while he could command a ship of the line with eight hundred souls aboard, he was totally unequipped to handle this fiery daughter of his.

  “Lieutenant Burns, my daughter is your responsibility. See that she is watched at all times.” He felt like a coward as he whirled and left the deck.

  “Miss Rommey, your father’s point is weel taken.” Burns bit his lip and gestured at the man at his feet. “This one seems harmless enough right now—but if he was to come to himself, I wouldna trust ye alone with him for one second.”

  Blanche Rommey was a strong-willed young woman, and the rebellious fury that had burned in her since her father had snatched her almost bodily from her affair with Jean D’amont still rankled. She looked down at the still figure at her feet, then deliberately took her delicate silk handkerchief and wiped the grime from his face.

  “I wouldna do that if I were ye, miss,” Burns warned nervously.

  She looked up at him with a challenging smile in her eyes, saying sharply, “But you’re not me, Lieutenant Burns!” She brushed the dark hair back from the unconscious man’s wide forehead and then murmured so quietly that Burns barely heard her words: “And nobody else is me!”

  She’ll nurse the fellow to spite her father, Burns thought, and he caught a brief smile on Whitefield’s lips, and quickly turned away, happy to deal with spars and sails instead of a beautiful, rebellious captain’s daughter who had no place on board the Neptune in the first place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ABLE SEAMAN HAWKE

  “You don’t give a hang about the man!”

  Captain Rommey had attempted for two days to ignore what every man on the Neptune was fully aware of—that his daughter had disrupted the entire ship. There are no secrets on a frigate. A ship of war manned for active service is the most crowded place in the world—more crowded than the most run-down tenement in London’s Cheapside. Every square foot of the vessel was spoken for, planned for, and even now as Rommey stood on the deck, he had to lower his voice to keep from being overheard as he spoke to Blanche, who sat beside the still figure of the injured man.

  Forward there were groups of men yarning, men skylarking; there were solitary men who had each preempted a square yard of deck for himself and sat, cross-legged, with tools and materials, doing embroidery or whittling at models, oblivious to the tumult about them. Similarly aft on the crowded quarterdeck the groups of officers strolled and chatted, avoiding the other groups without conscious effort.

  Blanche had had the injured seaman brought up out of the stuffy crew’s quarters below, as she had done on the previous two days. The wind had grown balmier, and Whitefield had rigged a hammock on the port deck aft of the mizzenmast; there he had gotten well acquainted with his captain’s willful daughter as they had sat beside the man. He admired her spirit, but realized clearly that the same impetuous impulse that had been the means of caring for the helpless man would be just as likely to lead her into less noble causes.

  The two of them had been idly talking when Captain Rommey appeared unexpectedly, and Whitefield, wily enough to see a storm cloud in the face of Blanche’s father, hastily slipped away. Rommey, towering over the girl, said with obvious displeasure, “You don’t give a hang about this man!”

  “Neither do you, Father,” Blanche retorted sharply. She threw her head back, her eyes flashing. His daughter took a perverse delight, he saw, in taking him on in the matter, and added defiantly, “Perhaps you’re right. He’s just a common sailor. But you pulled me out of the only life I cared for—now I have to do something to entertain myself.”

  He bit his lip, pondering how to answer her. Finally giving up, his mouth drawn in displeasure, he said sternly, “The whole ship is rumbling about this thing. It’s not good for discipline!” He waited for her to answer, but saw that she intended no such thing. Her rebellious disrespect flooded him with anger, for he was a man who could brook no opposition. Now he could only add, “You’re doing this to spite me, Blanche. Or maybe you’re playing dolls again.”

  His words stung her, and she stood up to face him, her features hard and her voice brittle. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’ve always liked to play god with people. Even when you were a child, you had to rule the other children you played with. And as an older child, you learned you were smarter than most girls, and better looking, so you did as you pleased. Later when you became a woman, you played with men—just as you’d played with your dolls—pulling them to pieces when you got bored with them.”

  “Oh, Father, that’s wonderful coming from you!” He knew her, and his words had cut deep—so deep that her face for all its rich color was a trifle pale. “You’ve done nothing all your life but rule people—and now you’re saying that I’m the one who’s spoiled!”

  He looked around uneasily, for her voice had risen, and he realized that she did not care a pin if every seaman on deck heard her—but he cared, for he was jealous of his dignity and knew well that a captain must be aloof from his men. He shook his head and turned, saying only, “I’ll be glad to get you to the Indies!”

  She glared at his broad back as he wheeled and marched away toward the forecastle deck; then as quickly as it had arisen, her anger faded and she laughed aloud at herself. It was typical of the girl to shrug off anger so easily, for her emotions were quick rather than deep. Her father, she realized wryly, was right, and it was part of her charm that she was able to see a weakness in herself as readily as she could in another.

  Curiously, she moved beside the gently swaying hammock, and with a gesture made easy by the practice of the last two days, lifted the battered head of the sailor and spooned some thin soup between his lips. She held his head, not missing the finely structured bones, the broad forehead, the high-bridged English nose, the small, neat ears, and the wide mouth, firmly molded and somehow a little stubborn even when relaxed. She paused before giving him more soup, and thought, I wonder if I’d be doing this if he weren’t so good-looking? She smiled disdainfully and admitted, Of course not! If he were homely, I’d never come near him.

  Blanche Rommey was a fickle, changeable, spoiled girl—but she had the rare gift of being honest with herself, and she knew that her father had been entirely correct in his evaluation of her motives—that she was doing it just to spite him and to play god.

  She was furious with him for interfering with her life and bored to tears with the ship. She was not a girl given to books; her very being was the essence of action, and tending the sick man was just one handy way of burning up the energy that seethed inside her—and had the additional benefit of irritating her father!

  Forward on the deck, as he emerged from the hold, Whitefield had been stopped by Oscar Grimes, the cooper. Grimes was shaped like a spider with a huge torso supported on thin legs, and his abnormally long arms, thin and sinewy, completed the illusion. His head was small, covered with a thatch of stiff black hair, and he had a pair of small, beady eyes, black as tar. Most of the crew were rough in their ways, but Grimes had the kind of evil in him that fascinated normal men. Repulsive as he was, in person as well as in mind, he drew a segment of the crew by the very power of his warped spirit.

  “Wait up there, Whitefield,” he called in an oily voice, and with a simian gesture reached out and caught the gunner by the arm. “Wot’s this agoin’ on?” he queried, nodding his head toward the spot where Blanche was tending her patient. Leering slyly, he added, “If that gel is that hot to ’ave a man—why, I reckon I can accommodate ’er!”

  Whitefield was a small man and seemed dwarfed by Grimes’s powerful bulk, but there was something in his light blue eyes that made the
cooper hurriedly remove his hand. “You just fly right at it, Grimes,” he said menacingly. “Touch one hair on that woman’s head, and you’ll be hangin’ from the yard arm by sundown—and feedin’ the fish by dark.”

  His words angered Grimes, and the cooper’s neck swelled; however, he well knew that Whitefield spoke no more than simple truth. In spite of that, he raised his voice as the gunner walked away, “All right, holy man—but I’ve got me ways! Oh, I’ve got me ways!”

  Whitefield walked up to the hammock, looked down at the still face, and asked, “Any change, miss?”

  “No, Whitefield.”

  “Aye—well, if you’d like to rest a bit, I’m off for four hours.”

  “Nothing to do on this awful ship!”

  “Not much, miss—not for a lady like yourself.” As he spoke his eyes caught sight of a large bird gracefully flying back toward the coast on powerful wings.

  “What sort of bird is that?” she asked, following his gaze.

  “Frigate bird, miss.”

  “Looks like an eagle. What do they eat?”

  “Oh, pretty much what all sea birds eat—but they are different. They don’t bother with doing much fishin’ themselves, you see.”

  She looked at him with a puzzled light in her eyes before turning back to the bird. “How do they get their food?”

  “Take it away from them what does work for it,” Whitefield answered. “Like—a pelican will dive and get himself a nice fish; afterward he’ll likely rise up and head off with it. But Mr. Frigate Bird, why, he’s been asailin’ round up there just waitin’ like—and finally he says, ‘Why, there’s my supper, right in Mr. Pelican’s beak!’ So down he dives—and it’s a fair sight, Miss Rommey, to see a frigate in a dive! So he hits Mr. Pelican and knocks ’im loose from the fish—and there’s his supper!”

  Blanche stared intently at the disappearing bird. “That,” she said with a quick grin at Whitefield, “is the kind of bird I’d want to be if I had to be a bird.”